


Deprived of other Banquet

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Childhood Memories, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary shares something from home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deprived of other Banquet

To imagine Henry Hopkins was Mary’s brother would not be such a reach, Jed thought, pausing in the doorway to regard them. It was not only their similar coloring, that dark hair striking against fair skin, less noticeable perhaps in Henry as his cheeks were shadowed daily by the heavy beard he kept at bay with a straight razor and significant skill. They resembled each other in their determined gait, the unflinching posture they took in every situation that shifted effortlessly to become gentle and consoling with a sick, crying boy. They recognized something in each other, it seemed, spoke efficiently on the wards, but easily and happily in the officers’ lounge. He’d never heard Mary hesitate when she spoke with Henry; she was always forthright and direct, confident without any need to defend herself, and he heard how Henry appreciated and welcomed her tone, how readily he would laugh at one of her wry remarks. He knew neither was as simple as they might seem at first blush, that what had drawn them to the War’s service was uncommon, as they were uncommon in the goodness of their natures, their patience and their occasional fierce outbursts which always reminded him there were not two Northern angels working at Mansion House.

It was easiest to imagine Henry the doting brother or Mary the instructive elder sister when they spoke of their pasts; they liked to do this in the evenings since it had turned colder but not cold, not any trouble for two Yankees in a mild Alexandria winter. Anne Hastings had prevented Mary from reading aloud from Dickens, as she’d first attempted, with a complaint about the scant leisure she had “being filled even more with your endless prattle, Phinney!” So Henry, put out but certainly hardly showing it, had encouraged Mary to sit beside him and had started to tell her about his neighbor’s farm at home, how the pigs had gotten loose or perhaps it had been geese; in any case, Henry had succeeded and Mary had laughed merrily and Jed had noticed she’d accepted the leather-bound copy of Oliver Twist Hopkins had found in a glass-fronted bookcase and taken it with her to her room. Jed had thought it a mercy for the entire hospital that he had only joined them when Henry was describing the Tartarus-like depth of the ditch the errant farm animals had nearly fallen into; he would not have been so accommodating to Hastings’s scorn and Mary would likely have had to smooth even more ruffled feathers.

She and Henry were already chatting at the cleared dining table tonight when he returned after a hasty supper and an even more rushed surgery on Private Thatcher’s leg which seemed determined to hemorrhage dramatically and repeatedly, like a cabaletta aria. Samuel had saved the man’s life by packing the wound after sending an orderly to fetch Jed and he’d once again thought how much good Diggs did and how much of it was unseen. He knew Mary held the freeman in the highest regard and was admiring and fond in equal measure, but she’d explained “I don’t think we can ever truly be friends as I’d wish, the barriers between us are so great, and yet it seems such a pity, to be held apart from such a fine man.” Jed knew he would have been jealous, and guilty for it, if Mary’s eyes had not been so warmly confiding as she told him, if she had not let her hand graze his long enough for him to feel the calluses at the base of her fingers. She hadn’t the same distance from Henry and he saw how she made the most of it, a friendship unimaginable before the War, while also never failing to think of some way to support and encourage Samuel. For example, Jed only wondered how she’d find a way to share with Samuel the maple sugar candy she mentioned to Henry just now.

“Have you never had it? I would have thought it popular in northern New York as it is in New Hampshire. Sugaring off the maples is such hard work but the syrup is such a treat, Caroline was so kind to send it,” she’d said brightly as Jed sat down beside them. There was a little dish, painted with a wavering camellia and chipped along the edge, filled with pale brown candy, shaped like hearts and roses and maple leaves, a dozen pieces it seemed, and a gift to Mary from her sister which she had naturally decided to share with the staff.

“No, we run more to cider, all those apple orchards you know, and the women are all bashful but they can’t help telling you their pie was eaten first at the church social. I’ve had maple syrup though and it’s a far cry from molasses or sorghum,” Henry remarked.

“Oh, yes, I do agree. It always tastes of that cold air in the trees, it’s so soft when the sap rises, everything feels green and hopeful. It’s not quite as dear as white cake sugar, but my sister is so generous to send it to me. I wish there was enough to share with the boys but as there isn’t, I thought the officers might like to try some. Some of the others have already had theirs. Won’t you, Mr. Hopkins?”

Henry picked up a piece and ate it, smiling broadly when he was done. “You were right, Nurse Mary. It was just as good as I remembered, maybe better. A little bit of the north woods, isn’t it, none of the tang of cider though. I must go back, see to Corporal Stephens, so I’ll bid you good-night.”

“Don’t stay up too late, Mr. Hopkins. You need your rest just as the men do!” Mary remonstrated with him, her tone entirely sisterly, Jed thought, and Hopkins took it that way.

“Yes, Nurse Mary. You’ve made yourself quite clear, you may be sure of that,” Henry said, nodding a little and Jed enjoyed the look the two exchanged, free of any darker underlying message, only Mary letting Henry know she cared and Henry making it clear he appreciated her genuine concern.

With Henry’s departure, they were left alone. Hastings had likely swanned out an hour ago while Jed was frantically trying to keep Thatcher’s heart from pumping all the man’s blood onto his boots and Hale, Summers and McBurney were nowhere to be seen, though Jed imagined each man had tried a little of the dessert Mary had set out. He liked to be alone with her but more and more, he was aware of the dangers the lurked in the lamplight, golden on her rosy cheeks, within the folds of the worn velvet curtains she’d had rehung, the brisk crackle of the fire in the hearth or the occasional hiss of embers when the night took the evening’s place. She was too lovely, too desirable then, it was, she was too much of what he hadn’t known he’d wanted and her intelligent gaze missed nothing. 

“Did Nurse Hastings like the candy?” he asked, for something to say.

“She turned up her nose at it, as you might have guessed. There was some haranguing about the ‘shockingly poor state of Colonial confectionary,’ the unequivocal superiority of British horehound, I believe, and then something about Miss Nightingale, how the maple sugar was wasted on me. I couldn’t truly follow it, but she does enjoy her recitatif so, it seemed a shame to interrupt her,” Mary replied, the amusement evident in the tone of her voice, the dimple in her cheek.

“I’ll go one further then and suppose Dr. Hale ate her portion, his own, and even part of Summers’s. I’m right, aren’t I?” 

“A most astute diagnosis, Dr. Foster. Dr. Hale did… gobble a bit, but it was like having a greedy little boy about, or a chipmunk, stuffing his cheeks, then scampering away.” She painted a vivid picture of Hale, whose frequent episodes of immaturity were only increasing with the War’s duration. At least his gluttony was minimally harmful to the men though he’d be ridiculed for it in polite society. 

“Have you had any, then? Your sister did send it for you,” Jed said.

“Yes, I did. I’m not so saintly as you seem to think, Jedediah. Shall I make a confession?” 

“If you must,” he replied. Surely she must know what she said, what he might think. How did her eyes look darker and more enchanting just as the firelight lit them? 

“I saved out a few larger pieces in my room when the package arrived over a week ago and I’ve been like a mouse myself, nibbling at them. I... the days can be so hard, so bitter, it’s silly, I know, but sometimes, I like to have a taste of something sweet in my mouth, before I come down,” she said. 

How it struck him, the image of her alone in her bare room, trying to cheer herself with crumbs and then also, what she had evoked so intensely-- her soft mouth savoring the taste of the candy when he wanted so for her to have his kiss the source of all her pleasure. He felt his color rise as he envisioned her in his arms, her lips parting for him, eager and hungry; he felt dazed with it and thought she must see.

“Do you, do you care for sweets, Jedediah?” she asked, her voice lower than he would have expected. 

Her hand reached toward the dish as if she would offer it to him. She’d dropped her lashes as she asked in a manner that could have been coy in a coquette but not in Mary, who was candid and outspoken, who never shirked her duty. But she was still tender-hearted, was still vulnerable and could be hurt—by deaths and grief, loneliness, Anne Hastings’s unremitting spite, his own words, first generally challenging and then pointed, wild, careless of the cruelty. He’d hurt her once and she’d looked away; this was not the same, except for what was, the powerful tension that was between them, dampened by Samuel or Henry’s presence, the murmur of nuns moving about the wards, but still there, as bright and hot and vital as Thatcher’s blood had been. He’d managed that and he must manage this.

“Some,” he said simply and reached for the candy himself. She drew back her hand and lifted her eyes to watch him eat.

He picked a rose and not a heart and tried to imagine the copper molds that had formed the sugar, the steam from the pots they’d boiled the sap in, the icy blue sky so fresh above, and not what it would be like for Mary to kiss him now, to lick the smears of sweetness from his lips, the firelight making her hair bright as a maple leaf in autumn, her cheeks red as the apples Henry would have saved for a cider-press.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the equivalent of all the stores carrying pumpkin-everything-- I am ready for a New England fall! As are Mary and Henry it seems. I liked the idea of comparing the friendship Mary forms with Henry with what she feels for Samuel and Jed's perception of both. Even off-screen, Anne must squawk and Byron must be a more minor jerk. 
> 
> There are plenty of 19th century maple sugar molds on Pinterest if you're interested!
> 
> The title is an Emily Dickinson special, as usual.


End file.
